


i know it's over, but how do you just turn off the way you feel about someone

by VenomQuill



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen, Relativity Falls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 09:23:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11917920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VenomQuill/pseuds/VenomQuill
Summary: It's 2017. The birds are singing, the flowers are blooming. Someone walks alone.A fan fiction written with the idea of this line: "I know it's over, but how do you just turn off the way you feel about someone?"





	i know it's over, but how do you just turn off the way you feel about someone

**Author's Note:**

> Findit on dA: http://fav.me/dblfnzk

The sun shone, the birds sang, the wind whistled. The day was perfectly normal and ordinary. I walked, my hands behind my back. All around me, people ran or walked or played. I watched as two parents walked with their chattering son down the street. Somewhere nearby, two men walked hand-in-hand, their lips upturned in brilliant smiles and eyes bright with the life only love in company could create. Somewhere else, a woman was helping her elderly grandfather out of his truck. The day was perfect and beautiful. Heat and love and excitement tinged the air. To the normal eye, the day was perfect.

My eye was anything but normal.

I looked over the street. A stray cat bolted from the presence of a dog being walked. A lone man sat on the sidewalk, tucked away and invisible to everyone. A small bird landed on the sidewalk to pick up the crumbs from a fallen trash can. It’s chirping and whistling was put to a quick end as it was plucked off the ground by a pair of sharp jaws. A kid fell on the street, crying over a scraped knee, unaware of the approaching car.

I couldn’t watch any longer, but I had to.

The cat who’d run from the dog hopped onto a trashcan and fell in, where it found dinner for the next week. The dead-eyed man raised his eyes as a woman and man stopped with three cups of coffee and two bags of food in their arms. The dead bird was dragged back into the dark, where half a dozen hungry mouths mewed and whined. The car in the street came to an immediate stop. The parents plucked the child off the street with a storm of apologies.

I continued.

I walked until I left the small, whistling town. I walked until the firm, trodden path bristled with weeds. I eventually came to a stop at the end of the trail. At the end of this trail, an old cabin heartily stood against the weather. Memories of the cabin came to mind. There was laughter, light, heat, and quite a bit of sugar-laced food. It was a young child’s dream and an old man’s nightmare, that cabin. Old and weathered and weighted by weather and war, deception and debt, love and loss.

I approach the old thing.

It’s empty and dusty inside. As I walk in, my footsteps echo through the dry and empty place. Sure, there is furniture and nick-knacks and silverware, but there are also mites and trash and rats. There are picture frames on the walls caked with dust. There are sugary cereal boxes riddled with rodent-bitten holes. There are toys whose paint has been worn. Trash was still in the half-filled cans. The rooms are half-made as if the place had suffered an earthquake and everything was half put together before the occupants gave up and left.

I stop on the back porch.

The old outside couch overlooked the lawn. In the center of it was a stone, rounded and weathered. The ground had sunken a bit. A mess of pictures, all in different states of decay, were stamped in the ground before it. A little golden pin had been fastened to the foot of the stone. Etched upon the face of the stone were words so weathered and faded an ordinary person might not know what they meant. I was no normal person. I knew what the letters etched on this stone represented.

I kneel before the old stone.

My knees are inches away from the closest picture in the ground. Two young boys stood together, arms around each other’s bare shoulders, hands gloved, skin bruised, lips pulled back to reveal teeth hidden within protective plastic cases. In my hands was a new picture. My hands tremble as I set down the newest edition to the pile. Sitting atop years of decay was a photo of a sailboat, proud and new. Seagulls cried and flew over the sea behind it. Its mast billowed in the wind. No one stood on the small sailboat sitting proud and happy on the dock. The names of its creators slopped across the hull. _Stan o’ War._ The words had been painted over so many times that the original coat was all but gone. On the stone, the Holy Mackerel pin glinted good as new under the sun.

My eyes travel up to the etching in the stone.

Clear as day, the carefully written words stung the stone. _Stanley Pines. 1999-2012. “Wherever we go, we go together.”_

**Author's Note:**

> "You're our hero, Stanley."
> 
> Purely platonic. Based on the alternate ending: Bill had killed Stanley after catching Stanley and Stanford in the Fearamid before Mabel/Dipper gave themselves up.


End file.
